


In The Green And Gallant Spring

by BlackMarketTrombones



Series: Flash Fiction [23]
Category: Mumintroll | Moomins Series - Tove Jansson
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-24
Updated: 2019-07-24
Packaged: 2020-07-12 12:40:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 277
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19946329
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlackMarketTrombones/pseuds/BlackMarketTrombones
Summary: Snufkin returns to Moominvalley in the spring.





	In The Green And Gallant Spring

**Author's Note:**

> IN the green and gallant Spring,  
> Love and the lyre I thought to sing,  
> And kisses sweet to give and take  
> By the flowery hawthorn brake.
> 
> -from "In The Green And Gallant Spring," by Robert Louis Stevenson

The path leading down to Moominvalley was a riot of greens. All around were various bugs and other creatures flitting to and fro as the residents of the valley awoke and peered about for the first time in months. The crunching footsteps of an approaching traveller were scarcely enough to disturb them from their revelry, and he passed undisturbed, as he did wherever he went.

It was spring, and Snufkin was returning to Moominvalley.

A crown of cheerful wind flowers wreathed the brim of his hat, the very tip of which poked out of the cloud of smoke shrouding his head. The fishing pole slung over his shoulder was still a bit damp from it’s dip in the sea, and a little pail of fish sloshed where it hung from his hand by his side.

Snufkin was not the hurrying sort, but he was walking with distinctive purpose.

Winters were lovely every year when they came. It did him good to shake off his restlessness and travel through peaceful landscapes blanketed by snow. There was a time when he thought he would never grow tired of the solitude, but these days the end of winter brought a quiet anticipation as he turned his feet down roads they knew by heart.

Seized by sudden whimsey, Snukfkin tapped out his pipe and exchanged it for his harmonica. The buoyant notes lent a spring to his step and carried off ahead of him.

Before long, there came a crashing through the underbrush.

“Snufkin!” called out a voice as familiar as his own. “Oh, Snufkin!”

Snufkin smiled around his harmonica. “Here I am, Moomin.”

It was spring, and Snukfin was home.


End file.
